


Torqueō

by FoxLight



Series: The Strawberry Shortcake Chronicles [7]
Category: Trollhunters (Cartoon)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, goofballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 06:32:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13475727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxLight/pseuds/FoxLight
Summary: torqueō – Latin: I twist, wind; I hurl violently; I spin, whirl; I twist or bend awry, distort; I torment, torture.





	Torqueō

**Author's Note:**

  * For [charlesdances](https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesdances/gifts).



> For charlesdances, whose art could light the sun.
> 
> See the wonderful work of art this is based on [HERE](http://shahs1221.tumblr.com/post/168050664504/stricklake-a-walter-stricklerbarbara-lake).
> 
> Enjoy!

12AM

Shaking from an overload of caffeine, he almost dropped the kettle when he lifted it from its electric plate in the breakroom. 

“Ack,” he spat, when the water splashed out of the spout and onto his hands—a consequence of how distracted he’d been when he’d filled it. “Confound it.”

“Careful Strickler,” a voice, Austrian in nature, floated up from behind him. He spun around, splashing more water (this time, on the floor) as he squinted, red-eyed, toward the intruder. 

“Señor Uhl,” He tried to soothe the surprise in his voice, “What are you still doing here?”

The Spanish teacher laughed, and then grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. “I could ask the same of you. Coach Lawrence found out that I had a background in sound systems. My first job, ja? He persuaded me to help him in the gymnasium with the speakers. We didn’t have much luck, but I did manage to finish off his playlist for the Spring Fling. Apparently, I am the only one who listens to the hip-hoppity tunes on modern radio.” He laughed.

“Yes, well I’m afraid I wouldn’t be of much use there, either,” he poured his water into a mug, then reached for the tea-box he kept stashed at the top of one of the cabinets. “Twentieth century rock is about as modern as it gets with me.”

“It’s a shame,” Uhl shook his head, “there are some really talented artists out there amid the white noise. Perhaps you will get a taste for them while you are going over the playlist.”

“While I what?” He said distractedly as he and brushed a scoop of tea-leaves into an infuser, then grabbed it by the chain, and bobbed it up and down until it sunk into the water. He let it go, and then checked his watch. _Two minutes._

“Principal Levit did it every year,” Uhl explained, “to make sure that our selections were free from any profanity or unwanted content. You can trust _my_ judgement, of course, but Coach Lawrence doesn’t always think before he does things. I did not yet look at what he put on there. Here,” he took a sip of water, then reached into his pocket. “I was going to give this to you tomorrow, but there is no need to wait.” A flash drive found its way out of the khaki depths, and Uhl placed it on the counter. “You’ll want to give it a listen before the dance, unless you enjoy the thought of being bogged down with angry parents the next morning.”

“No, no,” Strickler muttered, setting the mug down. “Not in the least.” 

“Last year’s incident of ‘Frooty-Tooty, Touch My Booty’ was bad enough,” the Spanish teacher went on, somewhat gravely, “one of the parents tried to sue because the phrase ‘just put your spoon in my froot loops’ I don’t know what that even means.”

Strickler’s face contorted in mild horror. “I don’t think we want to.”

“I’m just warning you: every lyric counts.” He took another sip of water, and frowned as Strickler took the infuser out of his mug and sipped to test the potency of his brew. “I made coffee earlier,” he pointed to the carafe, “in case you want something other than that fairy juice you drink.”

“Says the man who drinks the Columbian pond water they call a brew here. I may favor the leaf over the bean, but _that_ my good man,” he nodded toward the carafe, “is _not_ worthy of the title ‘coffee.’”

“Whatever you say, Strickler,” Uhl straightened “Still better than your ground up fronds.” 

The changeling harrumphed and folded his arms. They tittered for another five minutes before Strickler announced that he needed to “finish his paperwork” and promised that he would “give the playlist a good listen.”

Back in his office, he tossed the flash-drive onto his desk, and plopped down into his desk-chair, unalarmed by the sound of his bookshelves moving out of place behind him. The air wafted out of his secret chamber in a cool rush. 

Picking up a file from the stack of paperwork along his desk, he began to peruse its contents. Ah, yes, he’d almost forgotten where he left off earlier. As he marked the page with red ink, something twinged in his right shoulder. He couldn’t decide whether it was Barbara or the old injury he’d sustained when Gunmar had taken his wings. Jim had been quick to discover that little handicap of his, though he had yet to discover its dark roots. He could still hear his own screams as Gunmar dangled him by that arm, could feel the bones within his shoulder popping and breaking as the warlord shook him, and they failed to carry his stony weight. But that hadn’t been the worst part—oh no—then, had come the ripping, and the tearing, and the pulling of his wings as they were grossly twisted away, with pain so scalding that it paralyzed him. He recalled blacking out during the first wing, and coming back into consciousness during the second, only to be unable to speak, or yell, or even move as excruciation overwhelmed him.

The sound of a page dropping to the floor nudged him out of his stupor. The changeling growled and shook his head. He hated these little episodes of his: too many years, too many memories. Thank the stars no one had been there to witness. 

Uncomfortable, he stood, grumbling in aggravation, and placed his hands behind his back as he began to pace the room. 

He wondered why his arm had hurt. Barbara was clearly fine--no other pain had followed, but what had caused it?

 _"I will torture you,"_ Angor Rot’s voice echoed within the cavern of his memories. He could still see the long and reaper-like figure as it pointed to Barbara while she slumbered. _“And you shall be made to watch as that now peaceful form suffers with you…"_

Angor Rot’s nighttime visit had kept him riled for over a week, now. Wherever he went--be it his class, his office, or his apartment--there was pacing to be done, his shoes (or claws) tracing a delicate circle into whatever surface they happened to be digging into at the moment. 

By now, he was tired, frustrated, angry, and entirely at the end of his chain. Worst of all, he’d been avoiding Barbara.

Strange how things had come to this—that he cared so much for her wellbeing that he was afraid to be around her.

But he was right to fear. Angor existed only as an agent of destruction—created by the Pale Lady, his life, for centuries, had been an extension of her will, and her will had been a mystery since the beginning of Strickler’s own meager existence. Death lingered in the path of her blanched gaze, and although he’d served his creator for many lifetimes without question—he now feared that her hungry eyes had turned onto his lover.

Merlin was her mortal enemy, and by extension, so was the Trollhunter, and by extension of _that,_ so was the Trollhunter’s mother, and anyone with whom the champion shared his love and care.

The former hunter, Kanjigar, had been right about one thing: cutting ties meant keeping people safe. Not that it had ended well for his rebellious son, Drall, whose budding romance with Nomura had been both dangerous, _and_ a gargantuan thorn in Strickler’s side at the time. How they’d all escaped with their heads still tied to their necks was quite beyond him. He distinctly remembered the day that Bular had discovered the truth: 

“My father fed you, raised you, nurtured your unworthy existence,” Bular seethed, “and after all these years, you betray him with a weak, human emotion.”

“Lord Bular, please.” She’d begged him, backing away from his low and blood-starved blade, “it is not what it seems.”

“You think you have a place in Trollmarket? A chance to be accepted by Vendel and his spineless followers? You would no more be welcomed by the denizens of that realm than you would by the human race, given the knowledge of what you truly are. The humans are easily fooled, but you cannot hide beneath Vendel’s discerning gaze. His eyes are clouded, but his magic grants him a vision beyond what most can see. He would surely find you out, and would spare you no mercy, as I will spare you no mercy now.” 

Strickler had watched with feigned disinterest as the edge of Bular’s sword came sharply against her neck. 

_Black it stood as night, / Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, / And shook a dreadful Dart…*_ the words of John Milton came to mind.

The Darklands were your only home, my father your only protector, and with us, you would have found victory on the surface lands. But now, impure,” he spat, “you have proven unfaithful. You can no longer be of any use to me or my fath--”

“Wait, Lord Bular.” Strickler held up a clawed hand, his gravel-laden voice scraping above Bular’s own. “You misunderstand Nomura’s actions; she was only obeying my orders.”

It was a lie, cold and clear. The blade paused.

“Order’s for what, Sticklander?” The red eyes turned on him. “I caught her trying to breed with that half-wit son of the Trollhunter’s. She is on his side.”

“That’s ridiculous, Bular, you know we’re not capable of--”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bular interrupted him, his dark and massive form within in annoyance. The blade on Nomura’s throat had loosened somewhat, but she still lingered on the edge of slaughter. “She still consorted with the enemy.”

“With all due respect, I beg to differ,” he shook his horned head. “ _I_ instructed her to seduce Kanjigar’s son and to aquire his trust so that we could collect information—gain closer access to Trollmarket’s resources and power. We need this intel in order to locate the remaining pieces of the Killahead Bridge.”

Within seconds, he began to question his words. He’d stuck his neck out for Nomura in the past, but this time what she’d done was truly traitorous—treasonous. There were only so many times that he could save her from her youth, and only so many instances where Bular would remain such an easily-persuaded idiot.

“Why bother with deception?” The dark prince growled, “when you could simply hold him ransom for such a price. You half-breeds are all alike, with your feeble, sneaking ways of getting what you want. These things can be taken in a much quicker manner by force—by displaying raw strength.”

“Look at me, Bular,” Stickler gestured to his own body, “your father didn’t trust me because of my strength. He saw both opportunity and utility in my cunning nature. That is the case with Nomura as well. You should have faith in his judgment, and in his power over us. None of the other changelings wish to share my fate. Gunmar used his strength to take my flight from me, made a living example out of my flesh, and keeps my still-beating limbs above his throne like a mantled deer. None of my brethren would dare be tempted to follow in my footsteps. The dread of Gunmar has seeped into the bone. I cannot betray him if I want my wings back, and nor would the others deceive him for fear of losing something of their own.” 

Like a yearling, the toothy prince roared in distaste, but the words had achieved their desired outcome. Bular’s crimson gaze flared, and he threw his sword into the far wall beyond. 

Nomura, whose eyes had been fixedly planted to the ground, finally shuddered and fell to her knees. Her violet chest heaved as the great brute stalked away, the ebony cloud of his anger trailing behind him.

Strickler switched to his human form. There was a long paused before she did the same. 

His arm stretched to hers and, reluctantly, she took the help.

“Thanks,” she said under her breath, though with a voice was unlike anything he had ever heard from her. She sounded tired, weakened…not at all grateful for her life.

It wasn’t until they’d found the sun outside, far beyond Bular’s reach, that he managed to crack her clamped mouth open.

“Nomura, that was too close,” he murmured, trying to soften his words, though he seethed over the situation. How could she have been so careless? So easy to manipulate? “You know that was too close.”

Her eyes fell on his as they stopped beneath the shade of an oak tree, and for the first time, he saw it: a flash of jade in her dark irises--heartbreak, in its purest form. Water began to collect at the edges of her lashes, and he could feel his own brows wrinkling in befuddlement. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that, before that day, he had never seen Nomura cry.

“Oh, come here then,” he grumbled, and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her in a loose embrace. She tightened, at first, but then he heard her sigh as she relaxed and came closer.

Apparently his heart wasn’t as cold and shriveled as he imagined.

“We’re lucky Bular’s such a simpleton.” He said, twitching at the dampness that had collected on his neck. “He wouldn’t be able to tell butter from a baboon if we weren’t there to mark the difference.”

He heard her breath catch in a laugh, and it prompted his own hidden smile. Squeezing her arm one last time, he pulled back, drawing her out as far as his fingertips. 

“There we are,” he said, catching her eyes. “Right as rain.”

She waved him off, and wiped away the rest of her tears, once more donning her spikes as she took a step back.

“It wasn’t what it looked like, anyways,” she commented. “We were just bumping noses…”

“Hmm," he nodded. He knew what she meant by it. Much like horses, trolls often shared breath when greeting or bonding with another. The majority of trolls and changelings (excluding him, for his own nose was much more human) had stunted snouts between their brows, and it allowed them to contact the ritual with intimacy and ease. Much like a hug, it didn’t always precede coupling, but sometimes it certainly led there. Although loath to admit it aloud, he suspected that Gunmar’s dolt of a son had been correct in his assumptions, and that it would have—given the chance—led to more than just “bumping noses.” Whatever Nomura had initiated, it didn’t shore up with the goals of their changeling race—that much, he could surmise. Somehow, he needed to correct the behavior.

“Next time, just try to plot your course a little more carefully.” He offered, and braced himself as he sat upon the ground, trying to seem disarming. “Perhaps choose someone who isn’t three breaths away from the enemy.”

She scoffed, and took a few nervous paces, before finally leaning against the tree. Above him, she hovered, her eyes busying themselves with the swaying of a stray cluster of flowers in the breeze. Slowly, her voice found its stage, “That’s a ridiculous suggestion.”

Irritation twitched in his nose. “I don’t believe so.”

“You’ve never fallen in love, have you?” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Of course I have,” he flourished, straightening his jacket. “Flowers, chocolates... I’ve run the whole track, killed the horse, kept beating...” His nose wrinkled, bewildered, if not suspicious. “Why? What makes you think I haven’t?”

Nomura rolled her eyes. “Oh, I don’t know. The fact that you think you can control it.” She lowered herself to the ground, and wrapped her arms around her human legs. “It’s not something you choose or plan on,” the changeling continued, “It doesn’t fit into your carefully planned out schedule. That whole Cupid thing the human’s made up really isn’t that bad of an analogy, One day, you’re walking along,” she make a walking motion with two finger’s in the grass, “looking after your own hide, and the next thing you know, you’ve been hit with a barbed arrow. You can’t just grab it by the fin and yank it out—it just makes the damage worse.”

“Old as we are, Nomura, the chances of me _not_ having experienced an emotion are rather slim. I think we simply have different takes on it”

“Age doesn’t equal experience, Strickler. You may have me beat by a few centuries, but I think I have the lead in this category. Doesn’t matter,” she stood, and brushed off her skirt. “It’ll come to you one day, and I’ll laugh when it hits you like a boulder. You’ll remember this day, and you’ll think to yourself. ‘Geez, Stricklander, you’re such a tart. I guess Nomura was right after all.’"

“I severely doubt that.” His hand went to one knee as he rose.

Decades later, it was exactly as she’d foretold. What a fool he’d been. How daft, how wrong...

“You idiot,” he muttered to himself, and started at the sound of his phone buzzing. He picked it up from the polished surface of his desk.

 _Hey stranger. Got some time tonight? I do, finally. ;)_

It was Barbara. He couldn’t hide his smile. Since when did he smirk at such trivialities?

 _If by “time,” you mean me sneaking you into my office after hours, then yes, I have time._ His fingers typed back.

The phone buzzed again. _And I thought *I* was the workaholic._ He could almost see that half-smile she wore so well. _Sounds scandalous. Better not let the principal find out, or you could get in serious trouble._

His snort resounded through his office. _Oh, I’m sure we’ll find a way to distract him. Truly love, I’d enjoy your company. I subbed in for the history class today. If I have to read one more syrup-covered, rush-induced essay answer that was clearly typed just before the bell rang this morning, I may go mad._

He paused after he sent it, wondering if he’s come off as a bit too sour. Despite his true nature, he had a certain fondness for the academic arts, and took joy in looking after his students. 

Another buzz. _The doctor is on the way._

Name three possible types of infantrymen used by the Mongols during the Battle of Mohi in 1241, and explain how each might have led to the Mongols’ victory.

His eyes narrowed on the student’s answer.

“M-class ninja pirates?” he read aloud, and scoffed. “What is that even supposed to mean?”

Green eyes continued to scan the page. “TEI fighters? That’s not even the right universe!” A hand found his brow. “Heaven help this current generation,” he sighed.

Perhaps his earlier peevishness had not been misplaced.

Twenty minutes and a few angry red pen marks later, he felt yet another buzz.

_I think I see you’re office lights on. Are you still inside? I’m at the entrance by the soccer field. It’s locked._

He bolted up.

 _Coming._ He typed as he slipped his jacket on. Halfway out of the room, he paused, having caught the flash of a florescent bulb from his ‘extended’ office. It wouldn’t do to have Barbara discovering _that,_ he thought.

“Right,” he muttered and shuffled over to remove his key from the secret lock. The bookshelf behind his desk rumbled as it rose and locked into place. He snapped his pen shut, glanced over the room one last time, and rushed out. 

Jogging down the staircase, he jumped past the last few steps, and practically ran into the door.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, breathless as he swung the door open. “I thought I’d left it propped. Señor Uhl must have passed by…”

“Did you just run?” A giggle ebbed out of her.

“Well,” he puffed, and ran a hand through salt-dusted his hair. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting. It’s not exactly the safest hour—not that you couldn’t handle yourself in a good row...”

The doctor slipped the rest of the way inside, and caught his hand as it came back down. She laughed, and shook her head in amusement. “My hero.”

The bar on the door gave a metallic click as it locked resolutely behind her.

“Don’t know about the hero bit,” the side of his lip tugged upward as he looked down at her. “But I _am_ yours. That, I do not question.”

As her eyes went soft, he took her into his embrace, forehead pressing into hers with a gentle nudge. He released a soft breath, and closed his eyes. “I’ve missed you.” The nuzzle drifted into her hair.

Her felt the softness of her lashes fluttering against his jawline as her own eyes closed, and his stone heart skipped a beat. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispered.

Humming, he brushed his cheek across hers, up and down, before offering her a gesture that was a little more ‘human’ in nature. Bending down, his lips brushed over hers, soft as a wingtip, before they pressed in to take her properly.

The feathery sigh she released was almost enough to make him forget their surroundings, huddled as they were near the weighted metal doors. He would have lost himself all together, had she not gently squeezed his hand.

She pulled back, glasses askew, and smiled up at him. “So, what was that you said about sneaking me into your office?” Her free hand brushed through the side of his hair.

The gesture nearly melted him to a puddle. “I…” he puffed and cleared his throat, bewildered by how quickly she managed to undo him. Nomura certainly hadn’t lied about the lack of control. “I believe that I have something better in mind, but we’ll have to pop in for just a tic.” 

Hands still entwined, he led her forward and up the stairs, conversation bending toward the days frivolities.

Once at the door, he jangled his keys until he found the one that matched his office.

“…and keep in mind,” she continued, “this guy had managed to drink and ‘entire’ bottle of hand sanitizer while he was sitting in his room, so now I’m worried about alcohol poisoning on top of this inability to urinate that he’s come in for,” she gestured to the air. “And, not to make you wince, but long story short, we see something on the x-ray, so I get in there with the cystoscope and there’s this…auxiliary cord…lodged--and the nurse beside me, Marcus, he just loses it.”

“Dear god,” Strickler uttered through a breath, as he finally wiggled the lock open. “No wonder he chugged bottle.”

“I mean,” she went on as they walked into the room, “the poor kid was trying to be professional, but he’s new, so, anyway-- _he’s_ turning red with a case of the tickles, while one of the interns is trying to keep the patient down and immobilized—the guy’s in pain, at this point, but we can’t give him anything, because the sanitizer is still wearing off—and he got a good couple of kicks into my shoulder before they finally got him to stop. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to tug this thing out, and ugh,” she brought a hand to her forehead, trying to shake the memory away, “what a way to end the night. The patient ended up going off into surgery, because the cord somehow got knotted up in there. I’ll get the rest of the story tomorrow evening.”

That explained the quiet smarting in his arm, he thought. 

“Well, let us hope, this time, that he learns to listen to a doctor, instead of trying to listen to his—“

“NO!” She shouted dramatically, clutching a clump of his sweater as she laughed, “do you realize how many of _those_ I’m going to be dealing with tomorrow? Don’t you dare.”

“And yet, not one delivered with my charm,” he smirked as he put one hand over hers, and leaned the other against his desk.

Green eyes drifting back toward her lips, he wondered—not for the first time—how he’d become so addicted to this custom. 

Her eyes sparkled knowingly, and a smooth hand rose to trace a line from jaw to chin as she tugged him downward. The confident smile he wore so well faded and smoothed into something tender.

“Not a one,” she said, once she’d pulled back from their kiss.

The blue of her gaze wandered over to his desk, and he let his hand slide over her waist as she drifted away from him. As he watched her reach to lift up a piece of paper, he heard her snort in amusement. He looked over to the victim: a giant, red blot marred the page, as if he’d tipped a vial of ink in its surface.

“Get a little angry there, sweetheart?”

He laughed lowly, “not exactly.” _Ah, yes, the episode…_

Setting the page down, she leaned against the desk. “I don’t think I’ve even seen you angry yet.” 

“Nor I, you,” he acknowledged. “I hope never to be such a beast in front of you. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry, love. _I_ don’t like me when I’m angry.”

“Why? Are you going to turn green and burst out wearing a pair of purple shorts? Because I’d like to see that.”

“Well,” he lifted a finger, “maybe sans the purple shorts.”

The comment was lost on her, but the embrace he offered was not. He felt the warmth her palms pass across his knuckles as he sidled up behind her, placing a vigilant hand across her stomach. Although he’d been avoidant, he’d certainly missed her touch, and now that she was in his presence and cloaked within the privacy of his office, he seemed unable to let her go.

 _You’re going to have to, eventually, old boy._ He told himself. _You can’t keep her; not if you care._

He didn’t like that thought; not at all. By god if he wasn’t becoming attached to the life they were carving out together—the quiet domesticities, the familiarities, the jests. What a sentimental sapling he’d become—as silly as a child.

“I think you might need to take your contacts out,” she said, and his eyes focused back on her. “Your eyes are red.”

 _Contacts?_ He thought, brows knitting together. 

_“I didn’t know you wore contacts.”_

_“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”_

_Right…_

He closed his eyes, quickly pinching two fingers across the bridge of his nose. He could feel the burning where they’d started to glow. Luckily, it was only a dull, sedated light—easily misinterpreted as optical irritation. 

“Ah, yes,” he laughed nervously, “I was ready for the knacker’s yard three hours ago.”

“You what?”

“Sorry,” the electric sensation faded, and his eye twitched open: _please, Sticklander, do join the rest of the century._ “Turn of phrase: bit of a dated village where I come from. It means I’m tired. ”

“Well,” she put his hands along his waist, and swayed them side to side. “How much work do you have left?”

It prompted his smile, and reminded him of his earlier intentions. “More than I want,” he swayed with her, stepping forward to press his chest against hers. “But about that thing I had in mind; I have an idea of how we might both find enjoyment in this task.” 

“I have no idea where you’re going with this,” she laughed, “But I’m on board.”

“Good,” he reached behind her, teasing her with the slide of his cheek against hers, and pulled the flash-drive off of his desk. Waggling it in front of her, he smiled. “Let’s get started.”

***

The passages leading to the gymnasium were dark at this time of night, the walls and corners creaking with quiet introspection. Barbara wafted bravely through the silence, though he could hear her breath catching every now-and-then at the passing of a shadow in her eyes. For once, he knew it wasn’t any of his cohorts in crime. Neither Angor Rot, nor any of the Janus members had any business meeting him tonight—it was too much of a risk with the Spring Fling in tow, and with teachers working extended hours in preparation for the final exams. 

He squeezed her hand, regardless. “Just the ghosts of generations past,” he offered, though spirits or not, he knew he was the scariest thing in there. 

“Or, you know, mice.”

Their footsteps drew them past the cafeteria, and down a deeper corridor. “Let’s hope not, love. Else I’ll have to have a bit of a chat with the hired pest control.” 

A few more minutes found them pausing before another metal door, which was larger than the one she’d entered before. He unlocked it, and gestured her ahead of him. 

“It sounds like a cavern,” she said, stepping past the threshold and into the black. “But I’m guessing it’s the gym.”

Despite the pitch of dark, he could see her—a benefit of his half-blood nature, and he eyed her in her unassuming state. She was beautiful, light or none. 

“Can’t slip anything past you, can I?” He said, stamping down a pang of want. Drawing away from her, he flipped the heavy switch of a light, inciting a series of clinks in the sky. Above the, a handful of muted spotlights fluttered on—not enough to brighten the entire gymnasium, but just enough to set the right mood.

He smiled internally.

There was a table not too far from them, and he strode to it. A laptop rested on its surface. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, flipping the screen, and turning the device on. He shoved the flash drive in its port, and opened its accompanying files. “I have no idea what’s on here. One of my colleagues asked me to look over it.”

“What is it?” She asked, coming up beside him. 

“Just a bit of music,” he opened the media player and scanned the contents of the file. “Rubbish, as far as I can tell. We’ll have to be creative with the beat. Do you dance, at all?”

“Uh--” she stuttered, of guard. “Well, it’s been a while. I, uh--I haven’t danced since the last wedding I went to.”

“Oh,” he chirped, “Splendid. Anyone I know?”

“Yep,” she nodded her head, placing her arms on her hips as she busied her gaze with one of the spotlights. 

Green eyes widened, catching her implication. His first thought was to be alarmed, and to recoil from the activity entirely. 

He caught her hand in his, and kissed along the surface of her knuckles. “Well then,” he said, brushing a thumb across her fingers, “how about we create a new memory for you?”

Slowly, the line of her lips tugged into a smile. “I’d like that.”

He clicked the ‘shuffle’ button. The first strains of music began, and with them came a voice: 

_”I’ve been reading books of old / The legends and the myths / Achilles and his gold / Hercules and his gifts…”*_

“Oh, I’ve actually heard this one.” he commented and rose to stand beside her. “It played at the market, just a few nights ago. I can see Jim favoring it. He is quite smitten with Ms. Núñez.”

“Yeah, he is,” she agreed, voice warm and mirthful, as it often was when she spoke of her son. “I heard him practicing his proposal in front of the mirror the other day. He doesn’t _exactly_ have the gift of a silver tongue—gets that from me. I think he could use a few tips, if you ever catch him in the hallway.”

“I quite like your tongue,” he said coyly, then leveled his expression. “But I’ll talk to him, if he lets me. He’s not exactly my greatest admirer these days.”

“I know,” she said, and her eyes fell. “Ever since we started this relationship, he’s been acting like he never even liked you. The thing is: I know he did. He used to love your class--always did his history homework first, just so he wouldn’t disappoint you; went on endless rants about whatever topic you guys covered that day; and he never, ever spoke of you in a bad light.”

Something in him panged with guilt. _Of all the people that damned amulet could've chosen,_ he thought. Of course, there _was_ something special about the child. He’d felt it long before, and what had initially subsisted as an intuition had, in time, developed into fondness, even paternal affection. But those buds of that attachment would never bloom—the moment Jim assumed the mantle of the Trollhunter, bedlam had ensued, and in subsequent the carnage things had become irreparably damaged between them. 

Which was the worst part about all of this: he cared. Deep inside, he mourned the loss of his young acolyte. He’d enjoyed mentoring Jim—the boy reminded him of himself, in so many ways.

“Part of the reason I even considered you is because he admired you so much,” her words continued. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you were _very_ charming when I met you, and more than a little attractive, but I wouldn’t have started this if I didn’t think you two would be a good fit. I don’t know what happened.”

_“Where’d you wanna go? / How much you wanna risk?”_

“Well, I did take on a new role in his life,” he tried to explain. _No lies there_. “With this position as principal, he’s more likely to see me as his enemy. If it ever gets to be too much, love, and the two of you need some time…” he trailed off in implication. Despite their magical bond, and the impossibility of a true separation, he meant it. “It would pain me, but I would understand.” 

“I know you would,” she said before he could think too deeply on his words, or regret them. Her arms came around him, and he felt blades of her shoulders rise and deflate as she drew in a breath, and then sighed. “But we’re so deep in this, now,” she pulled back, and looked up to him, blue eyes glinting: torn as she was between her two loves.

How could he have done this to her? 

“I don’t want to stop.” She’d said the phrase before, in heated moments--never had she used it in the context of sorrow. The juxtaposition overcame him, along with his memories: 

_“Don’t stop,”_ he heard her fluttering voice, and always, he obeyed. 

With a sudden wave of urgency, he pulled her back to him, one hand cradling the back of her head as he pressed his nose into her hair. _I’m sorry…for what I’ve done, for tearing you apart--I’m so sorry…”_ he wanted to say, but didn’t. 

“I don’t, either,” he said instead, kissing where he spoke. 

_I want something just like this…_

God, how he loathed himself. He would fix it, he thought as his heart pounded with self-directed scorn, he would find a way to mend it all.

In the scattered light, he caught her hand in his, while his other arm snaked to the small of her waist, near her hip. As he stepped backward, he tugged her with him, guiding them both gently onto the polished stadium floor. 

“Let’s dance, darling. It’ll put us in better spirits.”

“Yeah,” she nodded, stifling a sniff, and placed her free hand on his shoulder, adhering to the basic form. 

“What’s your fancy, then? The foxtrot? The waltz? The Argentine tango? We can modify anything.” he said, warming his voice as he tried to seek her happiness.

“How about the box? I’m pretty good at that one.”

Jokes. Good. She was joking again. 

Chuckling, he pressed his frame against hers, and began to lead her into just that. “Box for starters. Hmm, let’s see…”

The next song that came on was decidedly _not_ his genre. A bouncing hip-hop mix that he’d never heard before. Still, he listened carefully, trying to detect any foul language at play. There was certainly a rhythm to play off of, and he quickly scanned his memory for the best fit. 

“Salsa,” he said in a beat, having made up his mind, and guided her into the steps. “One two three…five six se-ven,” he repeated as they moved, skipping the four and eight as he directed her through the steps. “There you are. Now a spin,” he pushed her hip as she stepped back, and watched as she swirled around before pulling her back to him.

To his surprise, she never once tried to look down. 

“You’re a good teacher,” she commented after a few more beats. 

“And you’re a fast learner.”

She started to smile, but then yelped as she stepped on his foot. “Oh!”

“Quite alright,” he intoned, knowing that she could feel the light sting in his toe. 

They recovered, and danced the rest of the song away, his green eyes twinkling as he stared into the maelstrom that was her own aching vision. There was a pause as the digital track changed, and they took a moment to catch their breath. 

Barely a lungful in, the next track started playing: _I found a love for me / Oh darling, just dive right in / And follow my lead..._

He winked wryly and took her in his arms again. “Foxtrot…severely tampered with,” he decided. “We’ll make it work. Back-step, side, together,” he pressed into her as he chanted, “back-step, side, together…and you go forward on the spin, see?” he guided her in a twirl. 

“I see,” she nodded, and caught on quickly. “Jim will like this one, too.”

“I daresay he will.” Although Walter had never heard it before, it seemed very much to fit the young Atlas.

As he swirled with her across the floor, the magic of the evening settled in. They went from one spotlight to another, almost waltz-like in their sweeping steps. 

_Baby, I’m dancing in the dark with you between my arms…_

Although he was the one pushing against her in this dance, he felt entirely swept up by her undertow--the stronger current she held beneath them both.

“’You look perfect…’” he sang along, though he’d only just learned the words. 

”Oh, did you notice?” She teased, pursing her lips as she canted her head to the side. “I changed my scrubs and everything, wore my finest teals, found my most expensive clogs. I mean, I really dished out here.” 

“I always notice,” he stated, quite soberly, despite the light tone. “I enjoy you, darling, raggedy scrubs and all. Don’t forget that.”

If eyes could melt, hers undoubtedly did so.

_I have faith in what I see…_

The words sparked something within him, his emotions swelling with the song, and he set his jaw. Love, he thought. This really was love. _Dammit,_ he wanted to mutter for its joy, and for its pain.

Happily, the tune was such that it sent signals as it was coming to an end, and he thought devilishly of stealing more than just kiss as he dipped her to the ground. 

He could tell that the spark within had reached to her as well. Their first kiss felt poignant, almost reverent. The next dozen or so became increasingly frenzied. He pretzled his arms around her as he bent them lower, preparing to bring them to the ground.

Then, the buzzer for the scoreboard went off, jolting them both right out of their skins. Walter fought the urge to change as he launched on the defense. 

“What on earth?” he looked around them as he straightened, one arm holding her close.

“Gotcha!” came a voice from the megaphone Coach Lawrence held. Far above them, and in a sliver of light, Strickler scried his hulking form along the bleachers. “You two kids are in big trouble. No one sneaks into _my_ gymnasium to swap saliva without getting at _least_ three weeks of Saturday detention! Maybe even suspension! Now come quietly, and I might be a little more lenient.”

“Oh. My. God.” The changeling muttered to Barbara and then cleared his throat to shout. “I’m the principal, you tyrant!”

“Strickler?” he could see the coach squinting his eyes from above. “Wait, hold up,” he jogged down the bleachers, sounding like an elephant above the subtle music. Strickler’s green eyes rolled.

“Ms. Lake?” Coach Lawrence asked when he caught up to them, mouth agape. He crossed his arms. “Well _now_ I know why Junior punched a dent in one of my lockers when I sent him to the principal’s office.”

“Wait, Jim did what?!?”

Walter’s eyes widened. Despite himself, he’d been trying to cover for the boy.

“Walt?” she turned to him for answers.

He gulped running a hand through his tussled hair. “It really wasn’t an issue, Barbara. One of the janitors managed to pop it out.”

Sighing, she put a hand to her temple. “You shouldn’t hide these things from me. I know we’re in a relationship, but that doesn’t mean I stopped being Jim’s mom.”

 _Curse you, Lawrence._ “I know darling, I’m sorry. I should have brought it to your attention.” 

Her eyes flared at him--not angry, but certainly vexed. He shrunk back apologetically.

Lawrence flashed his palms. “Look, I don’t want to cause a fight here.”

“We’re not fighting!” They both turned on the coach, their words simultaneous, and then blinked at each other in surprise.

“Sure—uh, listen Strickler. I didn’t see this, okay? I’m not looking to get on anyone’s bad side. Is there anything I can do before I go? You know, some pillows, a hot towel? I’ll try to get some of the mood back for ya. Chocolate milk! Does anyone want some chocolate milk?" He looked desperately between the two of them. 

“No thank you,” Barbara shook her head.

“I think you’ve done quite enough, Mr. Lawrence.” Strickler shot the teacher a look. 

“You’re sure?” He pointed gun-fingers at them as he backed away. “Got strawberry, too. Comes with a bendy straw and everything.” 

“Mr. Lawrence,” the changeling warned, though he heard Barbara giggle beside him. They exchanged a knowing look.

“Last call on the milk,” he said, backing into the metal door to open it.

“Have a good evening, Mr. Lawrence,” he said, though he was no longer paying attention to the teacher, so distracted was he by the spark in her eyes.

Once the door clicked, she broke out into a fit of snorting laughter, and nearly doubled over. He smiled down at her in amusement, besotted eyes half-lidded, and coated with ardor. 

“I can’t decide which is worse,” he said, and he could feel his voice roughening. “The idea that Coach Lawrence finds milk to be romantic, or the part where he offered you strawberries. I say.” And then, he purred into her ear: “ _Nobody_ offers the lady strawberries, but me.”

Her smile faded into something more intense, and he heard her breath deepen in response. 

“Hmm,” he mused, a tender hand reaching to cup her chin. 

Another pop song had come and gone. Now, another began: 

_I see what you’re wearing / there’s nothing beneath it..._ *

He stopped before he kissed her, raising a brow. “Alright, _that_ one’s going off the list.”

The doctor laughed and took his hand. “I like this song.” She pecked him on the cheek. “Now, how about we close this down and go someplace where we won’t get interrupted. I hear your apartment’s a pretty quiet place this time of night.”

“Get that from Mrs. Presgrit, did you?” He played along. 

The banter went on, with many a joke centered on the interruption of his abode’s proclaimed silence, as well as Mrs. Presgrit’s continued belief in their midnight baking endeavors. 

“I’ll just tell her we burnt the batch,” he said, halfway through their drive. He’d take her back to her car tomorrow. “Again…”

“Or we ate it all,” she offered to their plot. 

“Oh, very good, very good.” An agreeing finger found the air as he guided the steering wheel.

Up in his apartment, he set the record player going, and they danced in the patterns of moonlight beside the window. 

“’Wise men say, that only fools rush in,’*” he sang along gently and nuzzled her nose, smiling when she laughed at his antics. 

The much more subdued wavelengths of the disk and needle lulled them both.

 _Shall I stay? / Would it be a sin?_

Eventually, her weight fell on his, body slackening in fatigue, though she continued to sway. “What was that you said about the knickers yard?”

A chuckle. “Knackers,” he corrected gently. “It’s where they used to cull horses. I worked at one, briefly. Terrible place.”

“That does sound bad,” she yawned, tucking her head beneath his chin. “But _this_ is nice, you’re so warm.”

 _A warmth I can only grant you while I am this,_ he thought.

Hips barely moving now, he sighed, and fell into the embrace.

 _Take my hand / Oh take my whole life, too..._

He thought about all of things he adored about her: her playfulness, her wonder, her steady and resolute strength…

The fates be damned, he didn’t want end this, but he _had_ to—he absolutely had to.

“’Cause I can’t help falling in love with you.’” His eyes flashed, and then closed. And he swore that he would never let her go.

**Author's Note:**

> Quotes/Lyrics:  
> *John Milton, _Paradise Lost,_ Book II  
>  *”Something Just Like This” The Chainsmokers and Coldplay  
> *”Perfect” Ed Sheeran  
> *”Beautiful Now,” Zedd (feat. Jon Bellion)  
> *”Can’t Help Falling in Love” Elvis, but I had the Beck version on my mind because of charlesdances  
> The ENTIRE time I also kept harping over “Clarity” by Zedd (feat. Foxes), but couldn’t work it in. It’s a little dated at this point, give it a listen if you want to feel it’s currents running beneath the story.
> 
> A fun note: Unfortunately for our species, the ER stories that Barbara relates are all based off of real-life incidents.


End file.
